Somewhere With You
by WordsObsessed
Summary: So she's dating Weasley. That's fine. I mean, we only ever had a drunken mistletoe kiss. It meant nothing. She was lonely. She was sixteen. It was Christmas. It meant nothing. Nothing... I tell myself this as I sit in the kitchen of Twelve Grimmauld Place, knowing all the while that for as long as I repeat it, this bottle of firewhiskey will take an absolute hammering. SB/HG, AU.


**A/N: I wrote this after listening to Kenny Chesney's **_**Somewhere With You – **_**its longing was so heart wrenching that I had to put a story to it, and this is the result. **

_So she's dating Weasley. That's fine. Fine. I mean, we only ever had a drunken mistletoe kiss. It meant nothing. She was lonely. She was sixteen. It was Christmas. It meant nothing. Nothing. _

I tell myself this as I sit in the grim old kitchen of Twelve Grimmauld Place, knowing all the while that it's absolute bullshit, and that for as long as I repeat it to myself, I will remain at this table with this bottle of firewhiskey and it will take an absolute hammering. And I will have a damn good time getting blindingly drunk, to the point where thinking isn't even a concept, let alone a function.

_Merlin's beard, I'd rather be somewhere with her, though._

§

When the war is over, we seem to grow closer. She moves out of her parents' house and into mine, and we begin to spend most of the odd hours her job gives her together – 1am, 2am… 5am. Sometimes she works through the night and I take her for breakfast, or lunch, depending on what time she gets home. I never tell her that I wait up for her and she never tells me not to, so me waiting in the kitchen keeping a mug of tea warm for her becomes an accepted part of our lives. A tradition, a ritual, if you will.

I can't sleep until she's safe home, anyway.

§

Sometimes Kingsley forces her to take time off – on one of these occasions, she takes me to the carnival of her childhood. All night, we ride on muggle contraptions, play muggle games, and eat pink, fluffy, sugary muggle food – she laughs when I get some in my hair and the sound is intoxicating. I chuckle, and our laughter escalates until we're just standing there beneath the stars, in the middle of some fairground, hooting and cackling for no real reason.

It makes my heart burst into a thousand shards.

§

Another time, I take her to a hotel by the sea. It's February, freezing cold, but she walks along the beach with her face tipped up and her arms out wide, smiling. She'd make a beautiful photograph, I reflect, as the wind picks up her scarf and her honey-coloured curls to make them dance around her. The chill has whipped her skin white, aside from her pink nose and deep red lips. Those lips, those lips, that I kissed all that time ago; I still feel them on mine, mine which haven't touched another's since.

I rue that day, and I treasure it.

§

That night we sit in our twin room, a bottle of elfish wine between us, and I sing to herI was fascinated with muggle guitars as a tennager, and taught myself to play – it seems I still remember the basics and so, having found one abandoned in the hotel wardrobe, I play it. She sits cross-legged before me and listens with a flush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes that I rarely see; usually they're drooping with tiredness. So I play, and she flushes and sparkles and smiles at me with those captivating, cursed red lips.

I would play to her forever, if she asked me to.

§

One night, back in Grimmauld's kitchen, I'm at the table and flicking mindlessly through a book when her patronus abruptly appears. I look up, confused, until her voice sobs _pick me up _out of its mouth_. _Without a second thought of this being a trap, a security breach, anything other than Hermione being in trouble, I reach out my hand to touch the silvery head of her otter and apparate to – muggle suburbia. I stare around, confused, second thoughts only _now _appearing in my head… But then I see her, sitting beside a gate, alone in the darkness. She looks up at me and it feels like a curse hits me straight in the chest, seeing those bloodshot eyes and tearstained cheeks.

She feels tiny in my arms when I pick her up, and I never want to put her down.

§

She tells me back at home, over hot tea and toast, that she's had a fight with her mum, about her engagement. Her stupid,_ fucking _engagement. To Ronald _fucking _Weasley. Her mum thinks she's settling for less than she deserved – I agree. Her mum thinks that she'd grow bored, and unhappy – I agree. Her mum thinks that she's doing it to make everyone else happy – I agree. Her mum thinks that living with me has made her the happiest she's ever seen her – I agree. Her mum thinks that she should end the engagement and carrying on living at Grimmauld Place – I agree.

I shred a piece of toast, and think that Mrs Granger and I would get wonderfully.

§

I picked her up at 3am and took her home that night. Hell, I'd pick her up and take her home any hour of the night or day. Whenever she needed. Whenever she wanted. But the hour when I _knew_ that she needed to come home is the hour she doesn't call me. Instead, she chooses to become the next Mrs Weasley. She doesn't cry my name and have me take her home. She just walks up the aisle, ethereal in layers and layers of ivory and gold, and signs away her name, her independence – her life. And all I do is stand there and smile – no, I cry, and Luna wordlessly passes me a handkerchief. Only she doesn't know that it's tears of grief, anger, and regret which soak it.

But then, nobody knows, and I vow to keep it that way.

§

For months after the wedding, I stand concealed outside her new cottage, watching until the lights go out. Then I head to a bar, any bar, and crawl into an unknown bed to get my temporary high. I don't even feel guilty – I have to do something that numbs the pain of not sitting at my scrubbed table, waiting, waiting, waiting until the fire glows green and she stumbles out into my, our, kitchen. I'd rather be doing that, but it's not an option. No, I'd rather be crawling into her bed and sleeping in her arms. No, I'd rather be back on the beach of two summers ago, sheltering from the rain in her car.

But that's not an option either.

§

The rain had appeared so unexpectedly that we were wet through by the time we'd pelted back to her little muggle car, unlocked the doors, and fallen inside. The storm that subsequently escalated was so intense that there was no hope of driving. Instead, she'd pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel's out of the glovebox, and we'd worked our way through that rather than the storm. We'd tipped our chairs back to lie down, staring at each other, and in a drunken haze she'd confessed, _I hate my life. I hate that I know where it's going. Hold onto my hand, Sirius. Don't let me go. If you ever decide to leave, I'll go too. _

In the morning, she hadn't mentioned it – but then, neither had I.

§

A year after her wedding, she sees me in the Leaky Cauldron, laughing raucously with some other ragged, lonely old men. She's just passing through to get to Diagon Alley, but she catches sight of me in the corner. Her eyes light up – but then darken when she sees my appearance, my companions, and the clutter of liquor bottles. She doesn't ask, and I don't say. Instead she smiles hollowly, waves, and quickly carries on out the back door. I fall back on my stool, feeling like I've been punched in the gut. I close my eyes for a second and imagine another world when I'm walking with her, the ring on my hand matches hers, and her eyes constantly sparkle for me… But then I hit reality hard, pick up my bottle, and down the contents.

In my heart, though, I'm always with her.

§

Another year later, it happens. I've given up bars, I've given up girls, I've given up strange beds. The high that I used to get from them simply isn't a high anymore; the feeling that fills me when I open my eyes these days is just too disgusting to bear. So I've taken back my kitchen table and tea, and it's there that I'm sitting when she apparatus into the middle of the room, her face, voice, and body broken.

"He said he doesn't love me."

I fall to my knees beside her in a panic as she collapses onto the flagstones, but she doesn't seem injured. Just… shattered. As though her entire strength was a sheet of brittle glass which received too much weight, too much pressure, and simply turned to dust within her.

Her gaze finds mine and our eyes hold, hers desperate, mine searching.

"He said he _never_ loved me, Sirius, he _never _loved me, not ever…"

She falls apart in my arms, struggling to draw breath and grasping my hands – pure rage flows through my veins, igniting my body with flaming hatred for Ronald Weasley, for crushing the woman I love, the woman I've always loved. For leading her on, for lying. For destroying her.

I'm never letting her out of my sight again.

Enough is enough.

"You're staying with me now," I tell her, low and measured, putting every bit of passion I feel for her into my voice. "I'll keep you safe. I'll never hurt you. I will never leave you, and I will never give you cause for you to leave me. Not ever."

She looks up, and although her eyes are full of tears, the gaze behind them is one of gratitude… and something else. Something indistinguishable.

Something I don't want to put a name to.

Something I don't want to claim.

Not yet.

"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you."

I close my eyes, and open them again.

She's still here.

With me.

Me.

**A/N: please review and let me know your thoughts – it would mean the world 3**


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